


A Scientist's Prerogative

by kenzimone



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-29
Updated: 2007-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-21 12:57:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/225417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenzimone/pseuds/kenzimone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chandra Suresh has searched for his daughter for many, many years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Scientist's Prerogative

**Author's Note:**

> Not so great spoilers for 112 – _Godsend_. And so continues my ongoing love affair with the thought of Mohinder possessing powers of his own (as previously seen is my other fic, _Phantasmagoria_ ). A big thanks to pyroblaze18 for the speedy beta!

He has searched for his daughter for many, many years. He has looked for her in the heavens, in the signs and wonders of the sky; he has tried and failed to feel her in nature, to convince himself that the wind against his cheek is her fingertips trailing unseen paths on his skin; he has searched in his research, in his books and samples and in the eyes of his students all weighing so heavily upon him.

He has searched for her, but never found her. Has never considered that maybe she had fled his sight simply because he did not understand. Never realized that when the moment was right, she would reveal herself to him; herself, and so many, many more. Never considered the options, not until now.

It is not a scientist's prerogative to present unaltered facts and let the world draw whatever conclusions it might from his work. To remain completely unbiased is never his motive, and his facts are warped and twisted and changed according to his own will, so that the world will see it from _his_ point of view. See _his_ conclusions and take them for truth.

This, this is what Chandra Suresh tries to tell himself. Because what he has unearthed should perhaps have remained buried.

A list. _His_ list. The list which has claimed many nights of sleep, the one to which he has sacrificed his reputation; his academic career. His family.

He has searched for his daughter for many, many years, and her specter has finally stepped forth from behind the shadows. She has revealed herself, and drawn apart the curtains of doubt and confusion surrounding his mind.

Shanti, sweet little Shanti, whose smile was like stars in a dark velvet sky. Shanti, who was so special, so very special; who was so much more than mortal men could fathom. Who died, who wasted away and never once cried even when the breeze through her bedroom window made the hair littering her pillow gently scatter and fall to the floor.

She is here, now. She, the reason for all of this, she is with him. Shanti Suresh; thousands of names, and she is right there amongst them. Never alone, not anymore. It is a comforting thought.

But with realization comes knowledge, and bones become flesh. Oh, would it have been better had he never known! For what can he do now? Simply watch as his only living child follows in the footsteps of the one he lost so long ago? No, never. He must act; he must tell of this. Tell of it to anyone who is willing to listen.

Mohinder is strong. This, he knows for sure. Whatever chasm has grown between them as of late, he will never doubt it. Which is why he may yet survive, should his father leave. Because that is what this means, this knowledge; to leave, and to prophecy and to gather together those who are special. To make sure that his son will not be damned.

Oh, how his fingers are shaking! He needs to depart from this place _now_. Time is fleeting, he knows – three weeks, and she never cried once – and he must savor it. Must leave, knowing he might never come back; That he might never again feel his wife's hand on his or take in his son's glowing smile.

It gives him pause. Because the list is dangerous. Not to him, but to others. Others, who in turn might wish him harm. His son-- Mohinder will follow him, he knows. Should anything happen, Mohinder will follow. And that is also a danger.

The work a scientist leaves behind can not always be taken as the absolute truth. In this case, it _must_ not.

His fingers trace across the keyboard slowly.

 _Forgive me, Child. But this is to see you survive._

A press of a key, and Chandra Suresh watches the list become one name shorter. He can only hope that his actions will prove justifiable.

  


* * *

  


The man is waiting for him when he comes home. He steps out of the shadows, gun in hand, and for a moment he takes on the shape of Death. Had it truly been so, Mohinder would have been chanceless. A bullet lodged in his forehead, or maybe his heart, life's blood pumping slowly out onto the wooden floor.

But the man does no such thing. Instead, he reaches out, and for a moment there's but a small spark of triumph burning in Mohinder's chest. His father, the man who was the laughing stock of the university, the crazed professor who traveled across the world to chase ghosts, was right. Was correct, and knew more than these other forces could ever hope.

But the spark is soon quenched, because Mohinder remembers who this man is, and what he does. How he gives little – not even a name, after all this time – and takes even that which is not Mohinder's to give.

“We both know that he generated a list. Who's on that list is a matter of grave importance.”

“You've come for it? You want to find them?” Will you take my life should I refuse? Will you make my mother not only a widow, but make her have to bury both her children as well?

“Why do you seem so worried? Are _you_ on the list?”

And that, Mohinder could truly not answer.

  


* * *

  


Sleep does not come. The list is not organized. The names are not in alphabetical order, nor sorted after city or country. Mohinder dares not begin to read through the names, because he fears he will not be able to stop.

But he _must_ know.

It takes him four hours, skimming page after page, and his eyes feel strained and dry. But he finishes, pushes away the headache until the very last name has passed his lips in a soundless whisper.

The man was wrong. Or maybe it was _he_ that was wrong. Either way, his mind has cleared. He is not on the list; such destiny was never part of his fate.

Back in bed sleep claims him and rocks him in its arms as if it had never refused him such before.

And if he dreams of snow covered Asian mountains, and an ancient warrior wielding a powerful sword, shining brighter than the sun itself, it is all forgotten come morning.


End file.
